


The Human Machine

by achingly_romantic



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alistair is evil, Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fitz has dissociative identity disorder, Framework as mental health treatment, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Leo Fitz & Jemma Simmons Friendship, Mental Instability, Ophelia has borderline personality disorder, True Love, eventual falling in love, inside the virtual world, shocker I know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 04:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16885824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achingly_romantic/pseuds/achingly_romantic
Summary: Leo Fitz lives in a mental hospital with his imaginary doppelgänger, Leopold. Facility Director Holden Radcliffe has invented an amazing new virtual therapy. All he needs are two compatible subjects. In walks Ophelia Sarkissian.





	The Human Machine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ophvelias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ophvelias/gifts).



Dr. Holden Radcliffe flattens himself against the back of his streamlined, ergonomic chair as if he’s been startled by the information displayed on the large translucent computer screen before him.

In fact, he is.

“Are you certain?” he asks. He stares at the readings on his screen and scrubs a hand over his chin. “Of all the people,” he mutters, shaking his head. A match between the son of his former best friend and the daughter of his ex-lover seems to be more than just a coincidence. It’s as if the universe is trying to tell him something.

“The brainwave patterns from their initial assessments are clear, Doctor,” AIDA, his artificially intelligent digital assistant, says. Her response emanates from speakers built into the ceiling, so that her disembodied voice seems oddly ubiquitous. “They have the highest potential for mutual benefit. I find their likelihood of success to be above the eighty-fifth percentile.”

“That’s the highest we’ve ever had,” he says in wonder as he sits forward and begins tapping on his screen. A keyboard glows to life in the polished-lacquer surface of the desk with a wave of his hand, and he quickly begins typing animatedly.

When the universe hands you serendipity on a silver platter, he imagines you should heed its advice, and quickly.

***

“Who is _that_?” Leopold asks, glancing over at a woman being led into the common room by two orderlies. She’s nearly as tall as Davis (who isn’t that bad, as orderlies go), and she’s well taller than Sitwell (a complete numpty if ever there was one).

She shrugs off their hands with a whip of her shoulders, and Leopold clucks his tongue. “Feisty, that one. I like that.”

“Shoosh,” Fitz hisses, eyes darting self-consciously about the room. There’s no one nearby except Hunter. He’s nearly catatonic. Occasionally, he mutters about ninjas or simply repeats what someone else says—as he does now, reproducing Fitz’s shoosh like a parrot.

“A hundred pounds says she’s just out of a three-day hold and lookin’ for a bit of fun,” Leopold says with a chuckle, ignoring Fitz’s pathetic attempt at muzzling him.

“Leave her _alone_ ,” Fitz snarls before turning toward the windows. His Scottish brogue has been softened by his many years away from his home country. Leopold’s is similarly dulled unless he’s speaking to their father, whose own accent has not seemed to soften around the edges, much like the rest of him.

There’s a long row of floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the entire wall of the day room. Fitz and his look-alike companion are on the second floor. The windows look down onto a peaceful courtyard below. It’s dotted with soft-looking fir trees, hydrangea bushes, and drowsy willow trees dangling over a shallow koi pond. Flowing stone paths lead between oiled teak benches where one can sit and stare at bleached stone beds raked into zen swirls or a dark slate boulder, as heavy and unmovable as Fitz feels himself.

The day room itself seems more suited to a modern art show than the mental hospital that it actually is. The faint smell of antiseptic, fruit cups, and old peas are the only real sign of its true nature. There’s one thing that’s certain: It reeks of money. All the furniture is sleek and comforting, rounded corners without any sharp edges. There are functional, Scandinavian-style tables and benches to sit on, or deep leather chairs more suited to a coffee house than an asylum; tufted square ottomans in neutral colors line a reading area with tidy lacquered shelves stocked with the latest suspense thrillers or light romances. The room itself is full of soft white light with bright color blocks patterning the walls. It’s like a children’s playroom, only for adult crazy people.

It feels oddly condescending, he decides.

“You might be mad as a hatter, but that’s no reason for them to splash the walls with primary colors like it’s a bloody children’s daycare, is it?” Leopold grumbles, echoing Fitz’s thoughts. He runs a finger along the windowsill, bringing it up to inspect for dust on his fingertip. He grunts his approval at the lack of it, rubbing his fingers together before clasping his hands behind his back. His crisp, black tailored suit is a strange contrast to the loose yellow jumpsuit Fitz wears. They all wear them there, the inmates. More of those primary colors that must be meant to make them happy. No, not really. He knows it’s to keep him standing out should he try to escape. It’s one step down from the bright neon orange of a prison jumpsuit. The hospital he’s in is for non-violent mental patients—or those at low risk of that sort of thing, at least.

Fitz looks back over his shoulder to see her, the tall woman with long hair. It’s flowing wildly around her face, an unkempt mane of dark waves. She pulls out a chair with a metallic clatter from the long table full of games—Jenga, Snakes and Ladders, Monopoly—more things for children. Carelessly, she pushes over a tall stack of magazines at the center of the table. They fan out over the surface, sliding across like they’ve been greased and several even slip off the edge to land face-open on the polished oak floor. Without looking, she pulls one from the middle of the flattened stack and starts to read.

“So dramatic,” Leopold says, chuckling as he glances over his shoulder at her. “So lively.”

“Shut up,” Fitz says, eyes again darting about nervously.

“Fitz!” Davis calls from the nurses’ station on the other side of the room. It’s behind glass because that’s where the meds come from, but Davis has slid open the partition to wave him over.

Hesitantly, Fitz walks closer. He’s all too aware of the new woman as he passes by her sitting at the table. Leopold trails after him, one hand smoothing down his hair, and the other, his jacket. His scrutiny is quite noticeable as he watches her reading, passing by close enough to nearly touch her. She doesn’t even look up, however.

Fitz arrives at the window where he can see Nurse Triplett counting out pills as Davis hands Fitz a cup with several pills of various colors in it—pink, blue, white, yellow. Blue is bad. He knows that. But with less than a second’s hesitation, he tips it back and chases it with the water Davis offers.

“Open,” Davis says. Fitz complies, dutifully lifting his tongue so the orderly can see that he’s swallowed the pills as required. “Good man,” Davis says, smiling. “You’ve got a visitor. Go sit down at table three, and I’ll send her in.”

Fitz’s anxiety spikes instantly. There are only two _hers_ that might visit him, and he doesn’t want to see either of them. The one that’s more likely, he wants to see least of all.

There are several small, private tables by the large bank of windows meant for sitting down with visitors at. Table three is on the wall and looks out at the serenity garden. He walks over and begins to sit down, but then Jemma is there at the doorway, striding across the room purposefully before he even has a chance to feel the seat under his arse.

He straightens immediately, standing politely for her as she takes his hand. “No, don’t get up. You should be resting,” she says, as if mental illness were something that required massive amounts of bedrest to cure.

“It’s fine, Jemma,” he says in weary exasperation. Sitting when she does, he clears his throat uncomfortably. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Course you are!” she says in her familiar faux-cheerful tone. But her enthusiasm seems to burn itself out very quickly. It leaves her chuckling airily with nothing more to say.

“She’s afraid of you,” Leopold says impassively. “She thinks you’re a creeper.”

Fitz swallows hard.

Voice too high, almost a singsong, he says, “How’ve you been?”

“Oh, fine. You know me, always busy,” she says brightly, clearly grateful for something to say.

***

Ophelia sees him as he stands with his back to the room, looking out the window with his hands clasped behind him, as if none of this were affecting him, even his ugly yellow jumpsuit. She can’t throw stones, she’s been accosted by the same designer. She wonders how he can do it, act like none of it matters.

Then she remembers: He’s fucking crazy.

She’s not. She’s there because it’s better than jail, but it seems pretty safe to assume that the rest of the people there are total nut jobs.

She watches him out of the corner of her eye as he walks oh-so-casually toward the nurses’ station to get his meds and then goes to sit at a table. She even watches as someone from the outside comes to join him. Jesus, listen to her. “The outside.” You’d think she’d been locked up for years instead of three days. But the woman who visits the stoic guy is obviously not a patient by her lack of a yellow jumpsuit and her anxious, high-pitched voice that Ophelia can hear clear across the room. He looks uncomfortable now as they speak in low tones while she tries to hear what they’re saying from across the room. She wonders why she’s even paying attention, except her magazine is three goddamn years old.

Truthfully, it is the only show going and it seems like an interesting one. He’s certainly the most interesting person in the room with his untouchable attitude. She’s having more fun speculating on the nature of his relationship with his lady visitor than she is reading beauty tips from yesteryear.

His girlfriend or wife? Ex-wife? Sister? She rules out her being his current girlfriend or wife. Not enough resentment. She looks more like someone congratulating herself on getting off scot-free. She has no idea until later just how apropos that phrasing ends up being.

Interrupting her musing, the short, creepy orderly puts a hand on her shoulder and says, “Dr. Radcliffe wants to see you.”

“Move that hand, or you’re gonna be sorry,” Ophelia says, her voice low and dangerous.

Sitwell loosens his grip and then releases her, almost as if he were trying to pretend it was his own idea.

“C’mon,” he says, backing off but watching to make sure she gets up.

She makes a racket sliding her chair out from the table, making the rubber buttons on the base of the chair squeal against the polished wood floor.

Several of the other patients in the room turn to give her a look of pained distress. She smiles sweetly and turns on her heel to follow Sitwell.

 

Sitwell knocks on the door. There’s a little plaque attached to it that reads: _Dr. Holden Radcliffe, Director._ Ophelia scoffs. She hears his voice call from within, bidding them inside.

“Ophelia,” Radcliffe singsongs, rising from the chair behind his desk with a broad grin on his lips. “Thank you, Jasper,” he dismisses Creepy, who turns and sidles back out without a word.

Radcliffe walks around his desk to face her. Standing before her awkwardly for a moment, he chuckles and ducks his head then suddenly pulls her into a loose, blessedly brief, embrace. “How have you been, my dear?”

Ophelia turns away as soon as his hold eases enough for her to do so, stepping back and plopping down on the sofa as she says, “Oh, you know…rehab, home, jail, detox, suicide watch, and then here—your rich-asshole’s mental institution.” She gives an artificial chuckle as Radcliffe’s own smile fades. She feels a wave of vindictive satisfaction over it too.

He clears his throat and sits down in the leather chair opposite her. “You know that I had to pull a lot of strings to get you out of jail and in here, don’t you, Ophelia?”

“Gee, thanks for that, Holden,” she scoffs, leaning back into the sofa’s soft cushions.

“I know you’re still upset about your mother, but I did everythin’ I could for her. Who do you think paid for her to go to Spain?” His tone is almost pleading and Ophelia knows she has him.

“Did you even know that she left us here?” she asks.

He can’t quite meet her eyes.

“Uh, no,” he mumbles. “I didn’t.” He looks at the floor for a moment before glancing up, saying, “How is your sister, by the way?”

“Still dying,” she says gracelessly.

“She’s bein’ taken care of, don’t worry,” he assures urgently.  

He pauses a beat and then sighs. “If you’d only come to me, you wouldn’t even _be_ in this situation, Ophelia. I’d have gladly paid for her medications. All you needed do was ask.”

She scoffs again, playing with a loose thread on the sleeve of her jumpsuit. “Right. Because I’d totally assume my mom’s last ex-boyfriend was going to be downright eager to bankroll my sister’s cancer treatments.”

Though she’s barely looking at him, she notices when he winces.

“Your mother and I were in love, Ophelia,” he says weakly.

“It really showed when you sent her off to another country—alone—so you didn’t have to watch her die,” she spits back at him. But even before he responds, she knows she’s gone too far.

“Look,” he says, a note of frustration in his tone. “I tried to be a father to you girls, but you were so wild and your sister was so withdrawn. I did what I could for your mother after her diagnosis. I thought she’d take you with her. I couldn’t run off to Spain, I had commitments. And, yes, I couldn’t just watch—”

“Holden,” she says, putting up a hand to stop his ranting. “I don’t need to hear why you sent my mom off to Spain to die of cancer all by herself. Or why I never heard from you again until you found out I was in jail. I just need you to get me out of here so I can get back to Delia.”

He looks like it takes him a moment to push his frustration back down, but then he shrugs his shoulders as if loosening the tension in them, and says, “Here’s the thing, Ophelia…I can’t just send you on your way. I need you to do somethin’ for me first.”

She sits up, a look of disbelief pulling her brows together. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve got to give the Court some reasonable assurance that you won’t be back to your thievin’ ways as soon as I let you go.”

“Well,” she says, leaning back again. “What’s that going to take? Group therapy or some other talk-out-your-feelings bullshit? Can’t you just mark me down as done? You know I only did it for Delia. I’m not a criminal, Holden.” She tries putting on a little charm, hoping to guilt him into it.

“It just so happens that I’ve got somethin’ better,” he says, his smile returning. “Somethin’ that might actually help you, Ophelia.”

“Really? Is it a pill? Because I’d love a pill right now,” she says, smirking wickedly.

“I’m afraid it’s not quite _that_ simple, my dear,” he says, a warning in his tone. He steeples his fingers together in his lap and continues, “It’s a sort of therapy, I suppose. More of a virtual therapy. I’ve been workin’ for years on this project and it’s been approved for human trials. I’ve had some success stories already.”

“ _Some_ success? _Virtual_ therapy?” she scoffs. “What the hell is it?”

“It’s a simulation run by my AI,” he says. “She maps your memories and creates scenarios out of your own mind that help you work through your past traumas.”

“You’re not serious?” she says, brows lifting in indignation.

He gives her a commiserating smile and raises his hands helplessly. “The good news is that it doesn’t take long at all. I’ve seen patients improve enough to leave in only a few months.”

“A few _months_?” she scoffs, sitting forward again. “I can’t stay here for months. Delia _needs_ me.” This time her tone is the one full of pleading. But she takes a breath and sits back as she tries to collect herself. She despises that she’s been reduced to begging him— _him_ of all people.

“I don’t think you’ll have to stay here nearly that long,” he says soothingly. “Your brain scans, taken when you arrived, indicate that you’ll only be here for a week or two at most.”

“That’s better,” she says—relief washes through her and bleeds into her tone.

Considering for a moment, trying to take it all in, she eyes him suspiciously and then asks,“Do _you_ see my memories?”

“Of _course_ not,” he says, sounding offended by the very idea. “It’s not possible in any case. Only AIDA sees it—as raw data. That’s how she creates the therapeutic scenarios.”

“Scenarios? Like roleplaying or something?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.

“It’s better than that. It feels, well, _real_.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “I can’t really explain it to you. You’ll just have to experience it for yourself to understand.”

“Real?” she echoes, feeling nervous for the first time.

“The thing is…” he continues cautiously, “you can’t do it on your own.”

“You mean you have to go in with me?” she asks, instantly horrified.

“No, no,” he says, hands rising and splaying out defensively. “Not me. I mean, well, someone else has to go in with you. It’s the only way, Ophelia. That’s how it works. If your brain could do it on your own, don’t you think it would have?”

“Who?” It’s delivered in a flat, slightly annoyed way, but there’s a hint of defeat to her tone too. She can’t leave Delia longer than absolutely necessary. “I’ll be out of here in a week, right?”

“A week _or two_ ,” he corrects, but then he smiles in that very charming way she remembers from when she was fifteen and her mother was so in love with him. That was how he always smoothed thing over with her mom. Bastard.

“It’s another patient, of course,” he says, answering her question about who.

“What’s wrong with them?” she asks bluntly.

“That doesn’t really matter,” he says. “It’s not the diagnosis that matters, anyway. It’s the compatibility of your brainwave patterns. Your borderline personality disorder won’t be cured, but it may well become much more manageable, even without medication—and then I can let you leave.”

“My what?” she blurts, unintentionally giving away the fact that she’s never heard that diagnosis in her life.

“Haven’t you been scanned before, Ophelia?” he asks, brows coming together in concern.

***

Fitz watches as Jemma waves to him again from the door on her way back out. He smiles tightly and waves back.

The visit with her had gone as horribly as he might’ve expected. It’s awkward and she’d been placating, even condescending, and he hates it. He wants her to treat him how she used to before…everything. But he knows now that she never will again. He’s damaged in her eyes now. He’s not worthy. She came to visit him for appearances, not because she cares.  

Still waving awkwardly, he drops his hand instantly when the tall woman comes back in. She passes by Jemma and looks right at him, a little smirk coming to her lips.

“She sees just how bloody henpecked you are,” Leopold says, turning from the window to face him.

“Shut up,” Fitz mumbles, turning away from the woman and looking out toward the serenity garden.

He’s surprised a moment later to feel a hand on his shoulder. He looks round, expecting to see her—unfortunately, it’s Sitwell. He gives Fitz a jostle and says, “Dr. Radcliffe wants to see you.”

 

“You mean it’s all inside my head?” Fitz says once Radcliffe has explained the new therapy to him.

“Yes, exactly. I should’ve known you’d understand,” Radcliffe says, giving Fitz a grin. “The scenario AIDA creates will feel real and you won’t know it’s meant to be therapeutic. In this way, you’ll be able to work through some of your traumas.”

Fitz glances away in embarrassment.

“Look, Fitz, I know you don’t really want to be here, you have family commitments—I’ve spoken to your father—but you did tell me in our last session that you want to get better,” he says encouragingly.

Fitz is startled by the mention of his father but he tries not to show it. Radcliffe knows his father from the old days back in Glasgow. They’d gone to school together or something. Leopold stands behind Radcliffe and scoffs at the mention of Alistair before rounding the desk and sitting down on the edge to face Fitz. He tries his best to ignore his doppelgänger but his stare is piercing.

“I do want to get better,” Fitz agrees. “But I’m not. I’m gettin’ _worse_.”

“What do you mean?” Radcliffe asks.

“I’ve been seein’ him again. I know he’s not real, Dr. Radcliffe, but he’s just _there_ …and sayin’ nasty things about me and everyone else. Since I’ve been here he’s been gone—until today.”

“That’s nothin’ to worry over,” Radcliffe says, giving him a smile. “He might come and go. But this therapy, it could help you so that keepin’ him away is easier. He might go away completely. You might still need your medication but you won’t struggle so terribly. Trust me, Fitz. I really believe this could help you get back out into the world.”

“Really?” Fitz is surprised to hear that Radcliffe is so certain. It doesn’t exactly sound like it’s a proven technique. Then again, what does he really have to lose by trying it? “Alright. Where do I sign?”

“Oh, no need, Fitz,” Radcliffe says with a chuckle. “That’s all taken care of. You just get a good night’s rest and come to me fresh for your session in the mornin’, eh?”

“Dear old dad signed for you,” Leopold sneers. “He made you a lab rat without even askin’.” He smiles sweetly. “But what did you expect?”

“Nothin’,” Fitz mutters. He never expects anything and yet he’s always disappointed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was planning on this being five or six chapters but we'll see. My work tends to expand beyond the scope I intend for it. I'll try to keep it under twenty, but no promises.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:  
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